


Between Two Lungs

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4445957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She still feels prickly, flushed from head to toe, like there’s something threatening to burst from her skin and swallow her whole. She thinks of Bellamy’s lazy smirk, the condescension behind the single princess, the glint of his teeth as he launches into another tirade. It feels a lot like waking up after a long nap and breathing in sharp, cold air. </p><p>Or, the three times where they work against each other, and the one time they don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. tutor

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a 3+1 one-shot but it got really long and rambly so multi-chapter fic it is!

**one**

There were three things Clarke Griffin knew about Octavia Blake before today.

One, she was one of the few freshmen that had been admitted to the school’s swim team. Clarke attended all the swim meets, mainly to support Raven, and she would see her there, slicing through the water with startling speed. Her form was precise, perfect. She always put on a army jacket after her meets, oversized and rolled up to her elbows, BLAKE stitched on it.

Two, she loved chocolate twizzlers. Clarke hardly ever saw her without a pack in hand. After swim meets, in homeroom, stuffed haphazardly and half hanging out of her backpack. Even her breath smelled like them, sweet and a little musky. She had offered one to Clarke during homeroom, her long dark hair pooling on Clarke’s desk, a single brow arched.

Three, she was apparently, horrifically bad at algebra. Clarke had been sitting by the bleachers, absorbed in her english assignment while waiting for Raven after practice when Octavia had accosted her.

“So listen,” She had said, slapping down a crumpled mess of papers onto Clarke’s lap, “I’m failing algebra. And I heard from Raven that you do tutoring sometimes.”

“Yeah, for my friends.” She had said, wary.

“We could be friends,” Octavia had said without skipping a beat. And after a lengthy, contemplative pause, “I’ll pay you.”

So, here she was, sitting in the Blake’s kitchen, eating from a tub of Chunky Monkey as she explained the quadratic formula.

“This is hopeless,” Octavia says dramatically, slumping over in her chair, “I’m never going to understand algebra. I’m going to flunk math and I won’t be able to go to college and my brother will kill me.”

“Now you’re just being a drama queen.”

She leaps out of her chair, pushing the books aside, “You know what will help? Food.”

Clarke blinks up at her, stares down at the nearly empty carton of ice cream Octavia had offered her when she arrived, “No thanks, I think I’m good.”

“I’ll just grab a pizza around the corner,” Octavia says, slipping on her jacket, “Are you okay with just hanging out here until I get back?”

“Yeah, it’s okay.” She says, a little unnerved. It’s disconcerting how at ease Octavia behaved around her, as if they had known each other for years. Sure, they had knew each other in the awkward, we share the same friends kind of way, but they weren’t really friends themselves.

“Cool, make yourself at home!” Octavia adds, before breezing out of the door.

The house, Clarke felt, looked lived in, a little tired. If her mother was here, she would say- in that disdainful way of hers- that the house was full of ‘character’, or quirky, anything to avoid saying that it was kind of old and rundown. Clarke liked it though, from the ancient looking clock hanging from the wall to the dented microwave oven. Everything in the house was interesting to look at, to draw.

She ventures out into the hallway, sketchbook under her arm, and peeks at the photos lining the walls. There’s a layer of dust settled over them, and the curtains by the living room are yellowing and frayed. She settles onto the couch, squeaks in surprise when it sinks downwards, emitting a loud groaning noise.

The table is badly scratched and scuffed, with pen stains and water rings and marker scrawls. She outlines one that says _O rules, B drools_ with her pointer finger, smirks a little at the _PENIS_ written by the leg of the table. Someone had tried to cancel it out with black sharpie.

She’s sketching the kitschy ornaments lined up on top of the TV when the door swings open, a cold gush of wind flooding the room, smelling like rain and grass and dirt. The person that tumbles into the room is swearing violently, hood drawn up, splattering rain drops everywhere.

Clarke briefly contemplates ducking into the kitchen while he’s occupied toeing off his shoes, but the loud groaning of the sofa when she gets up gives her away. She winces as his head shoots up, his eyes lingering on her face, as if trying to place her, before it turns into a glare.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Octavia’s tutor,” She snaps, chafing at his tone, “I’m guessing you’re the brother?”

He’s still looking at her suspiciously, dark hair soaked and matted against his forehead, “Octavia didn’t tell me anything about a tutor.”

“It was kind of a spontaneous decision,” She admits, tries not to get distracted by the water sliding down his jaw, the thin, soaked t-shirt clinging to his skin, “I’m helping her with algebra.”

“Algebra?” He says, sounding a little mystified, “I thought she was good at math.” He peels off his soaked jacket, twists his hands into his hair and shakes the water out before adding,

“Wait, how much are you charging her?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get a name. Mind telling it to me before you conduct this inquisition?”

He scoffs, “Me? You’re the one in my house.”

“I was _invited.”_

He pauses, and she can feel him assessing her, from her messy braid to the paint stained jeans to her chipped nail polish. He didn’t look at her the way the boys in school did- sometimes hungry, or wistful, yearning- but more like he was taking her in entirely. It felt purely analytical, if not a little hostile.

“Bellamy,” He says, clearly disgruntled. “And you are?”

“Clarke,” She says, extending her hand out to shake. He makes no move to take it, instead squinting at the carton in her other hand. “Did you eat my ice cream?” Bellamy says, accusatory, and her cheeks are _flaming._ Damn Octavia.

She drops her hand limply to her side, says cooly, “Octavia offered it to me.”

“It wasn’t hers to offer,” He says sharply, striding past her to ascend the stairs, “Jesus. I’m going to take a shower.”

“You do that,” She mutters acidly, crossing back into the kitchen to stick the tub back into the fridge.

Octavia comes back five minutes later, smelling like cheese and oregano, a slightly squashed box in her hands. “For my brother,” She tells Clarke, beaming, as she settles into the seat next to her. “What’s next, teach?”

“Linear equations,” She says briskly, “Do you have graph paper?”

She’s giving Octavia some tips on plotting when he barrels into the room again, towel slung over his shoulders, dark hair still wet and curling wildly over the place.

“Bell, this is Clarke,” Octavia says, poking him in the elbow with a twizzler, “She’s teaching me algebra.”

“And charging you an astronomical sum, I believe,” He says snarkily, flipping the box open, “Honestly, O.”

“I offered to pay her,” Octavia says, indignant, “Jeez, Bell. Way to make our guest feel welcome. I’m sorry about him,” She says, turning to Clarke, “He’s really grumpy after work.”

“You don’t have to apologise for his behaviour,” Clarke says in her frostiest voice, “It’s not your responsibility.”

“I’m still sorry though. And you owe her an apology, Bellamy.”

“I could teach you algebra,” He says, sulky, “You don’t have to hire someone.”

“Oh, so you have the time in between five jobs?” She says pointedly. He opens his mouth as if to retort, but instead pushes a whole slice of pizza into his mouth. Clarke winces at the grease that trickles down his forearm, leaves behind a slick stain on Octavia’s textbook.

He notices, because of course he does, and so he goes, “Hey princess, you have a problem with my eating habits?”

And it’s not like she means to lose her temper after, but well. He’s infuriating. Constantly interrupting to express disapproval at her teaching methods, or distracting her by making offhanded, passive aggressive comments about her fleecing Octavia.

When it’s not about the tutoring situation, it’s mainly about how uptight she is and how he completely disagrees with her opinion on everything- from ice cream toppings to what should be on the required reading list- and by the end of it, he’s red in the face from shouting and Clarke’s tempted to throw a punch. Or a plate.

“I can’t tutor you anymore, not while he’s in the house,” She growls, shoving her books back into her bag as Octavia walks her out, “Your brother is a _prick._ ”

“Did I scare the princess off?” He shouts, waving at her mockingly from the couch in the living room.

Octavia shoves her out of the door before she can retort, gives her a huge hug on the porch which Clarke grudgingly allows, her hands encircling her tiny waist awkwardly to pat her hipbone.

“I am so, so sorry,” Octavia says through barely concealed laughter, “I know I shouldn’t laugh but it was kind of funny. The fighting, I mean. My brother hasn’t gotten so riled up in ages.”

“Sure,” Clarke grumbles, unlocking her car, “Glad we provided you with some quality entertainment.”

“See you at school tomorrow!” Octavia sing-songs, ducking back into the house, giving her one last wave as she eases the door shut.

She should start driving back- it’s late, and her mother will be worried- but there’s something cathartic about just sitting in her car, watching her breath escape in quick, tiny puffs. She still feels prickly, flushed from head to toe, like there’s something threatening to burst from her skin and swallow her whole. She thinks of Bellamy’s lazy smirk, the condescension behind the single _princess,_ the glint of his teeth as he launches into another tirade.

It feels a lot like waking up after a long nap and breathing in sharp, cold air. Her senses feel heightened, thrumming, alive. It’s been awhile since she’s had so much adrenaline coursing through her veins, filling her with a kind of impulsiveness that she thought she squared away years ago.  

It’s not necessarily a bad feeling.

Clarke starts up the car and pulls out of the driveway, deliberately overturning the dustbins, before peeling off towards home.

___________________________________________

Clarke used to spend her free periods doing _constructive_ stuff- learning how to make a shank out of a pen with Monty, sitting in Wells’s car and performing drum solos to AC/DC, going to a drive-through with Raven and eating mozzarella sticks- but now she mostly tutors Octavia.

Which is boring and repetitive and honestly, frustrating. The money, which Octavia still stubbornly insists on imparting (“It was a part of the _deal,_ Clarke. God.”), is great and there honestly could be worst ways to be spending her Tuesday afternoon, but it’s just-

Every time she makes some form of progress with Octavia, Bellamy comes swinging by with his so called helpful advice and it just confuses Octavia more, effectively spiraling her back to square one. It takes all of Clarke’s energy not to scream.

“You got the hang of the distribution property last week,” She says, voice tight, “What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know,” Octavia mutters, her brow knitted, “How did I get this wrong though? Bell says exponentiation should be done after you distribute the coefficients.”

“Before,” Clarke says through gritted teeth, “Exponentiation should be done before you distribute.”

“Oh,” She says, sounding dejected, “I’m sorry, Clarke. Must have gotten it mixed up.”

The bell rings, piercing and sharp even at a distance, and Clarke winces, tries to shake away the pounding in her head. There’s a mounting pressure in the space between her eyes, a weight pressed up against it, and she has to force herself to take a deep breath, to recompose herself.

There are a thousand red marks littered on the problem set she came up with. Clarke stares down at the zeroes and the x’s, scrawled hastily in Octavia’s thick black scrawl, until they blur into a mess of ink.

“Where’s your brother?” She asks abruptly, swinging her bag onto her shoulder.

“Working on something at home,” Octavia says slowly, tightening her grip on her textbook, “Are you planning on heading over there to chew him out?”

“Go to class.” Clarke tells her instead.

Clarke technically has gym for her last period, but the thought of spending an entire hour chasing after a ball makes her skin crawl. She ducks into the warm confines of her car instead, revving the engine and turning up the heat.

A angry rock song blares over the radio, and for a second she contemplates flipping the station, but she thinks about Bellamy and the corners of his upturned mouth, the tension in his muscles as he leans over the counter, loose shirt hanging low over his chest.

She doesn’t switch the station.

It takes her ten minutes to pull up into the Blakes driveway, overturning the stupid garbage cans again, and she thinks that must have clued him in because he pulls open the door before she knocks.

“Clarke,” He says, surprised, and her scrambled brain struggles to process this, because for once it’s not _princess,_ spat derisively, or _your highness_ accompanied with an exaggerated bow. Then she recovers, anger a hard knot in her stomach, and she charges forward to jab her finger against his chest.

“Will you stop filling Octavia’s head with your crappy, inaccurate advice?” She yells, shoving him back into the house. His skin feels hot to touch, even through a layer of clothing, and she’s reminded of when Raven had dared her to place her finger right above the bunsen burner in chem lab.

(She lasted five seconds then before jerking away, the skin on her thumb red and angry as Raven forced it under the tap)

“What?” He says, confused, “As in, for algebra?”

“No shit, asshole.” She hisses, and she remembers the problem set, buried into the bottom of her bag, crumpled and creased, and thrusts it into his face. “See? Just look at what you did, Bellamy. She got the hang of the distribution property a week ago until you fucked it up.”

He takes the paper from her, unfolding it carefully, then says, a little stunned, “Holy shit.”

A fresh wave of fury crashes over her, and she reaches out to shove him again but he grabs her wrists before she does. His grip on her is loose, and Clarke knows she could overpower him if she wanted to, but there’s something about the stricken look on his face that makes her stop.

“I’m sorry,” He says quietly, avoiding her gaze, “I didn’t mean to set her back or anything.” He’s still holding onto her, his fingers comically large over her wrists. She shifts her attention back onto him.

“We both have a common goal here,” She says, forcing her voice to steady, “We both want Octavia to pass her quizzes, right? So work with me here, Bellamy. Give me a hand instead of derailing me at every turn.”

“Well, as you can tell, math was never really my strong suit.” He says dryly, “Why don’t I just agree to stay out of your way and stop being a prick?”

“Sounds good,” She breathes, as he gives her a small smile. He’s close enough for her to notice the smattering of freckles on his ear lobe, the small scar on his upper lip. He’s close enough for her to slide her hand under his jaw, to run her lips over the small divot on his chin. He’s looking at her too, eyes lingering over the mole over her mouth, his breath hot against her cheek.

“Sorry,” Bellamy says suddenly, releasing her, and stepping away. Clarke blinks, tries to ignore the feeling that they had been on the brink of _something._

“What are you doing home anyway?” She says instead. “Don’t you have work?”

“I was working before you rudely interrupted,” He says, jerking his thumb towards his laptop.

“Working on what?” She peers at the screen, makes out the logo of the local high school five blocks from where she lives.

“Setting history exams,” He says wryly, “Part of my job duties and all, being a TA for a high school.”

“You’re not in college?” Clarke asks, settling onto the couch.

“No,” He says shortly, and she doesn’t miss the tense press of his lips, the clench of his jaw, “I’m deferring.”

There’s a loaded pause, and she finally screws up the courage to say, “Can I ask why, or are you going to bite my head off?”

He laughs at that, the couch dipping under his weight as he sits down next to her, “Not going to bite your head off.” He’s quiet again, as if contemplating what to say, before he goes, a tad too nonchalantly, “I’m not sure if Octavia told you, but our mom died earlier this year. Money’s a little tight so I’m working a few odd jobs here and there.”

It’s not news to Clarke- not news to anyone from this town, really- she thinks everyone knew about how sick Aurora was. She had been frighteningly thin, her skin paper thin, translucent. Clarke would look at Aurora and be reminded of hollow bones, tiny and as fragile as a bird’s.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” She says woodenly, and Bellamy looks away, clearly uncomfortable. The silence settles back in, thicker than before. Clarke shifts in her seat, scrapes her fingernails against the skin of her knee as he stares steadfastly out of the window.

“So yeah,” He says suddenly, startling her, “I’m working now. My mom was friends with the high school principal, so that’s how I got the TA job, amongst the other stuff I do.”

“What kind of jobs?”

He shrugs, “Whatever’s available and pays the most. I’ve been a barista before, operated roller coasters, was in charge of a petting zoo. Weird stuff, basically.”

“Jack of all trades,” She quips as he rolls his eyes playfully at her, shoving her lightly with his shoulder.

He’s telling her about one of his construction jobs and the merits of working part-time when Octavia arrives, two huge pizza boxes tucked under each arm.

“Are you guys having a _civil_ conversation with one another?” She says, all sly, and Clarke pretends to be too busy eating to respond.

It doesn’t take them long to be at each other’s throats again- true to his word, Bellamy never does interfere with Clarke’s tutoring gig, not anymore, at least- but he still pushed at her buttons constantly, deliberately baiting her with his barbed comments and snide smiles.

There were also the stupid things he did to piss her off: swapping all her pen caps, leaving rude post-it notes in her binders, always signed off with his big, loopy arrogant scrawl. He scribbled notes in her text book too, underlined stuff he found funny, sometimes corrected the way a sentence was phrased. Her math textbook was filled with ridiculous knock knock jokes and an occasional badly drawn pile of poop.

She would open her textbook in class, and Raven would lean over, chin against her shoulder, hair tickling her chin and ask, “Lover boy leave you any messages today?” And Clarke would scowl, elbow her in the ribs. What Raven was insinuating was just plain stupid but Clarke always felt weirdly embarrassed about it after.

Retaliation was easy. Eating all of his ice cream, even though it made her sick to the stomach and ruined her appetite for dinner. Or sneaking onto his laptop and changing his wallpaper to a Hannah Montana one, along with swapping his default ringtone to _best of both worlds._ ( _What?_ Clarke likes Miley Cyrus.) It had pissed Bellamy off mainly because he _hated_ her, though he grudgingly admitted that the song was pretty catchy. (She’s pretty sure he never switched his ringtone back.)

She’s sitting on the creaky patio swing, finishing up Bellamy’s ice cream when Octavia comes running up to her, shrieking. She hurls herself at Clarke, a mess of limbs and hair, buttons of her jacket digging into Clarke’s ribs painfully as she shrieks, “82! 82 on my quiz!”

“Congrats,” Clarke says through the muffled tangle of Octavia’s hair, “I’m happy for you, I really am, but let me go maybe?”

Thankfully, she does, but she insists on laying her head on Clarke’s shoulder the entire time, sometimes nuzzling against her neck affectionately and giggling, “I fucking did it.” Clarke pats her head absentmindedly, affirms that yes, she did it and she damn well maintain that grade.

Bellamy finds them like this, and he’s happy until he sees the half finished, melting tub of ice cream lying on the ground.

“This is a new low.” He declares darkly, scooping up the tub filled with gooey chunks of ice cream and disappearing inside, presumably to put it back into the fridge. Octavia laughs, smacks a kiss onto Clarke’s cheek before following.

And she’s back in her car again, starting it up and staring at the Blakes house once more. All the lights are off except for the one in the kitchen, and she catches a glimpse of Octavia’s form, reaching over to tug on Bellamy’s unruly curls as he tries to swat her away. He says something, and she dissolves into giggles, her narrow shoulders shaking.

There’s something oddly comforting about watching them, familiar and warm all the same. She bets the kitchen smells like greasy fries now, as it always does when they use the microwave. Wonders if Bellamy will pop a can of beer for Octavia, to celebrate her algebra grade.

He catches her staring, and for a second they’re just looking at each other, his dark eyes curious. Then his mouth twists up into a smirk, raising his hand up to flip her off, mouthing, “That’s for the ice cream.”

Clarke scowls, flips him off right back, and pulls out of the driveway smoothly. The mature thing to do would be to to keep driving and head home before her mom freaks out on her again. But she chooses to scoot her car into the driveway once more, to knock over the garbage cans with deliberate precision, before driving off.


	2. cupcakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have really strong feelings about cupcakes tasting home made, you can fight me on this

**two**

Clarke didn’t think her day could get any worse.

Then she sees the one and only Bellamy Blake, perched on a tiny stool, long fingers stained with marker ink and glitter, tongue perched between his teeth in concentration as he hoists up his completed sign.

“You have got be kidding me.”

“What?” He asks, a tad too innocently, turning on his heel to face her. The chair below him jerks wildly, and Clarke grabs onto his waist to steady him. He curses lowly against her ear, smelling sharply of sweat and mint and fabric softener.

“You did this on purpose,” And she’s aware of everyone else looking at them, their gazes curious, heads bent low to discuss, “The art club has been selling cupcakes every year for the past five years, Bellamy. This is a dick move, and you know it.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, glares up at the sign above them. It’s done up in blue poster board, cartoonish drawings of waves and sharks scattered all over it, and right in the middle, neatly stenciled in black marker: Blake's’ Cakes.

He raises his hands up in mock surrender, “This is my first year helping out at the carnival, princess. How was I supposed to know?”

“Bullshit. I bet Octavia told you. And the booth right next to mine? Really?”

He sighs, folding his arms over his chest, and Clarke tries not to look at the taut line of tanned muscle pressed against his white shirt, “It’s a school mandated carnival, Clarke. You don’t have to get competitive about it.”

“It’s not just a carnival,” She says heatedly, “The art club needs the money, okay? We don’t get as much funding as the athletic department.”

“And the swim team needs the money for nationals, and to attend meets and to rent the public pool for practices.” He says, without skipping a beat, “Or that’s what Octavia tells me.”

“Just admit that you’re doing this to spite me.” She says through gritted teeth as he smirks at her, all boyish charm and smug superiority, and Clarke hates him.

“Princess can’t take the heat?” He says, mocking, and she hears a titter go through the crowd.

She takes a step closer, forcing him to back up, his hands braced against the table of his booth as she stares him down.

“My cupcakes are going to beat yours to the _ground,_ ” She spits, “So you better watch it, Blake.”

“Bring it on,” He says darkly, and she tries to suppress the shiver that runs through her body at the sound of his voice, low and husky and downright distracting.

She spins on her heel and marches off, head held high, and Lincoln’s the first to reach her, his hand resting comfortingly on the small of her back as he asks, “Everything okay?”

“No,” She says thickly, trying to ignore her rabbit-like pulse, “We have to step up our game, Lincoln. We are not letting the swim team beat us this year.”

“You’re friends with half the people on the swim team,” He says mildly.

“Irregardless!” She barks, shooting a glare over at Bellamy setting up his booth, “They started it Lincoln. They willingly let Octavia’s older brother set up a cupcake stand right next to ours. What kind of message does that send?”

He sighs, exasperated and weary, “Maybe you’re overreacting, just a little?”

“This is a matter of pride. Do you really want people saying that the swim team’s cupcakes are better than ours?”

“I’ll look up more recipes for us to try over the weekend.” He says reluctantly, and she gives him a terse nod in return.

They work on a banner for their booth, all intricate flowers and pastels and script- and Lincoln wants to call their booth _Clarke’s Cakes_ but Bellamy’s ruined that for her- so they go for _C.G Cupcakes_ instead.

She’s painting the display case- curling vines and ivy- when she hears Octavia call her name. Clarke smiles back when she does, her hand automatically extending for a hug, before she remembers that she’s mad.

“Blakes Cakes?” She says, accusatory, when they separate.

“I had no idea he was going to go for cupcakes,” Octavia says pleadingly, tugging on the hem of Clarke’s blouse, “I told him to go for baked goods, but that was the extent of the instructions I gave him.”

“You know he did this on purpose, right?”

“It could just be a coincidence,” She says, all hopeful, and Clarke snorts.

“Anyway, I have to go for practice,” She says, shucking off her jacket and looping it over her arm, “Want to walk me there?”

“I actually have to finish up,” Clarke says, “But Lincoln can walk you. He’s heading in the same direction, right?”

He nods, solemn, peeking at Octavia through his lashes. For a second, she can’t place the expression on his face, then she realises that Lincoln’s actually _shy_ and she nearly dissolves into giggles right there.

“Cool,” Octavia says, oblivious, “Let me hand over the jacket to my brother, then we can go.”

She flits over to Bellamy’s booth, chattering a mile a minute, and Clarke nudges Lincoln in the ribs, waggling her eyebrows when he flushes brighter.

“Shut up,” He mutters as Octavia dances over, cheerily smacking a kiss on Clarke’s cheek before pulling Lincoln away with her.

She goes back to painting, shoving her earbuds in, and she only stops when she sees flashes of lightning, bright and blinding against her eyelids, and then the familiar rumble of thunder. Clarke swears under her breath, digs out the tarp from under the counter.

She feels droplets of rain against her skin by the time she’s done covering up, and of course, she didn’t bring an umbrella. She has Raven’s balled up sweatshirt shoved into the corner of her bag, so she spreads it out over her head and starts walking to the bus stop.

Clarke’s cold and miserable, music still blasting feebly in her ears when she thinks she hears someone calling out for her. She yanks out her right earbud, straining to listen over the rain pounding against the concrete, and his voice comes into sharper clarity, unmistakably her name.

“Hey,” He says, breathless, catching up to her. The hood of his BLAKE jacket is drawn up, but his hair is wet, curls sticking to his forehead, “Do you need a ride home?”

She blinks at him, tries not to let her astonishment show, “Are you actually offering to drive me home?”

He rolls his eyes at her, snarks, “Well, excuse me for trying to be a decent human being.”

She can’t help it, she grins at his grumpy expression, all waterlogged and defensive with droplets of water trapped against his dark lashes, “Okay, lead the way.”

His car is warm when she slides in, smells faintly of cinnamon and christmas candles. He cranks up the heat when he enters, lowering the volume of the stereo simultaneously, and she thinks she catches the faint notes of a _Van Halen_ song before it’s replaced by the sound of the rain.

“You have to tell me how to get to your house,” He says, shaking out his hair, and she throws her hands up, groaning, as flecks of water splatter her already soaked blouse and skirt.

“Keep straight for now, I’ll tell you when to make a left.”

He’s a careful driver, a cautious one and she finds herself relaxing into her seat, letting her head loll back against the window. The silence doesn’t bother her as much as it should, and it doesn’t seem to affect him either, his posture relaxed as he drums his fingers against the steering wheel.

“So you guys share the jacket?” She says finally.

He casts a cursory glance down to the soaked army jacket, chuckles, “Yeah. It was mine, at first, but Octavia really liked it. My mom stitched on the letters.”

“It’s nice,” She says, and he smiles at her, a sliver of teeth and a twist of his lips, before averting his gaze hastily. She’s confused until she catches a glimpse of her reflection, makeup stained cheeks and frizzy hair, see-through blouse. She’s tempted to pull on Raven’s sweatshirt, but it’s completely soaked, wrung into a wet ball of cloth.

Clarke clears her throat, covertly slides her hands over her boobs, “Make a left here.”

He makes the turn smoothly, his thumb still drumming against the side of the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I think I have a sweater in the backseat if you want it,” He says, voice surprisingly gentle, and she’s grateful that he’s not making a big production out of it, or taking pleasure in her discomfort.

“Thanks.” She murmurs, wiggling into the backseat to retrieve the sweater at the stoplight. “Make a right at the next block,” She adds, before pulling the sweater over her head. The sleeves are way too long for her, the excess fabric swamping her frame, but she likes how soft it feels, the way it smells a little like Bellamy.

“This is it right?” He asks, pulling up in front of her porch, grazing the side of her mailbox. He swears under his breath, backs up the car so they’re a safe distance away.

“Thanks for the ride.” She says, unclipping her seatbelt, and hauling her bag over her shoulder.

“Any time, princess.” He says quietly, uncharacteristically shy, his hand resting against the back of his neck. And before she can change her mind, she leans forward, the console digging into her ribs painfully, and pecks his cheek, her lips stinging from his stubble, his skin warm against hers.

“See you,” She stutters, turning her face away to avoid looking at him before stumbling out, rain lashing against her skin as she darts up her porch.

Clarke chances a quick peek out the window once she’s inside, and maybe it’s just a trick of light, but she’s pretty sure she sees him smile, wide and stupid, before driving away.

__________________________________________

“Where were you?” Lincoln hisses when she arrives for her shift, huffing and sweating, hair stuck limply to the back of her neck, “I needed help icing these.”

“I missed my bus,” She grouches, swatting her hair out of her face and reaching for a piping bag, “I’m sorry, okay?”

He softens, pokes her ribs gently, “It’s alright. Sorry for being snappish. Did you see the line?”

“Yeah, and I also saw the line for Blake’s Cakes,” Clarke says sourly, throwing Bellamy a glare which he reciprocates with a cheery wave, “We either beat them or we die trying.”

The first hour passes quickly, with Clarke frantically icing while Lincoln manages the till. Raven breezes over sometime around the second hour, ruffles Clarke’s hair and snags a red velvet cupcake that has too much frosting on it. She sits by the counter as Clarke continues to swirl perfect roses on the cupcakes, her legs dangling in the air and occasionally kicking her in the shins.

“Shouldn’t you be helping your own booth?” Clarke says irritably, blowing a few strands of hair away from her face. Her arms are sore from icing, and she can feel sweat soaking the front of her shirt, sliding down the cups of her bra.

“Ugh, Bellamy doesn’t want any of us going near the booth, lest we mess up his perfectly organised system.” She says, rolling her eyes, “By the way, do you still have my sweatshirt?”

“In my bag,” She mutters through gritted teeth, rolling out her shoulders before reaching for the piping bag again.

She’s re-filling the cream cheese frosting when Raven whips her side with her sweatshirt, nearly sending her staggering.

“What the hell, Reyes?”

“Why do you have Bellamy’s sweater in your backpack?” She says mischievously, waving it in her face.

“It’s not his,” She stutters, trying to avoid Raven’s knowing look, “What makes you think so?”

“His initials are stitched on the back,” She says, tugging on Clarke’s ponytail, “I can’t believe you’re lying to me about it. What’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing,” She proclaims vehemently, sliding the latest tray of frosted cupcakes into the display case. Raven narrows her eyes at her, arching a single, perfectly plucked brow, and Clarke’s bracing herself for the inquisition when thankfully, Monty arrives for his shift.

“Sorry I’m late,” He gasps, hands braced on his knees, “Wick here insisted on coming over and trying your cupcakes.” Aforementioned Wick looks vaguely familiar, and he gives Raven a over the top wave, grinning stupidly, before launching into conversation about thermodynamics.  

She takes a minute to thank her lucky stars that Raven is now otherwise occupied, before wiggling out of her apron and handing it over, “Frost the red velvet's first, they always sell out too quickly. I’ll be back in about an hour.”

It feels good to be out in the open, away from the stuffiness of her booth, hot lights beating down on her neck. She does a quick circuit of the rest of the booths, not quite as popular as hers or Bellamy’s, before finally stopping at Blake’s Cakes.

There’s a line of course, and he’s wearing a stupid pink apron that says _kiss the cook,_ a sheen of sweat clinging against his neck. His hair sticks up in unruly tufts and there’s a smudge of pink icing by his ear, close to the spot where she had kissed him.

He catches her staring, and for some absurd reason, she flushes, fidgeting under his scrutiny. Then she catches herself, reminds herself that it’s just _Bellamy_ , before stomping up to him.

“Can’t you see there’s a line?” He says, grinning at her as he sprinkles chocolate chips on to a cupcake.

Clarke sniffs disdainfully, peers down at the neat row of cupcakes in his display case, “I’m not here to buy anything.”

“Oh, so you’re spying on the competition?”

“You’re _hardly_ competition, Blake.”

He squints at her, cocking his head to his side, “We’ve already made $300.”

“Big deal,” She scoffs, “Hey Lincoln, how much do we have in the till?”

“$315,” He says wearily, and Clarke gives a satisfied ‘ha!’, sticking her tongue out. Bellamy rolls his eyes, gives her a stony look, before declaring, “We’re going to overtake you, princess. Better not let your guard down now.”

“My cupcakes are going to thrash your,” She scrambles for a word, staring down at the perfectly rounded, symmetrical cupcakes, all adorning almost the exact amount of sprinkles, “ _Store-bought_ looking cupcakes.”

“Store-bought? Are you fucking kidding me? Taste it.” He demands, thrusting a oreo cupcake in her face, and she reluctantly takes a bite, rolling her eyes at him as she chews.

They’re moist on the inside, crumbly on the outside, the icing tart but not overly sweet, and it takes her a superhuman amount of effort to school her face into a stoic expression. She places the half-eaten cupcake back on the counter, wiping the crumbs off her mouth with the back of her hand.

He’s looking at her, all smug and cocky as he asks, “They’re good, aren’t they?”

“Your cupcakes taste like _commercialism_ and the death of authentic, home-made treats,” She retorts, and before he can say anything else, scoots under the barrier back into her booth.

“Let me take over,” She says, nudging Lincoln in the hip until he relents.

“Can’t you guys give it a rest?” He mutters, as she knots her apron at her waist.

“No fucking way,” She says darkly, sorting through the pile of cash in their makeshift register, “Oh look, $330 now. Did you hear that?” She raises her voice, cups her hands together so she can project her voice over to Bellamy’s booth, “$330, Blake!”

“$320!” He yells, waving a fistful of dollar bills.

They go on like this, back and forth, until an exasperated Octavia evicts Bellamy from the booth, which turns out to be a horrible idea because he chooses to stand by Clarke’s booth, clucking his tongue every time her cupcake swirl is imperfect or criticizing her technique.

“You shouldn’t twist your wrist like that,” He interrupts, and she bristles at the superiority in his tone, “You’ll fuck up the swirl and dislocate-”

“If you don’t shut up, I’m smearing this on you.”

“I’m just saying-”

She doesn’t mean to really do it- it was just a bluff, that’s all- but her elbow comes down hard on the piping bag, and a pool of cream cheese spurts right on to his shirt, specks of it landing in his hair.

“I can’t believe you,” He says tightly as she bursts into giggles, a snort escaping as she clutches her stomach, and he grabs at her, smearing frosting on her elbow, her shoulder blade as she shrieks, ducking away-

“Okay, that’s it,” Lincoln yells, and she freezes in place, Bellamy’s arm around her hips, hot breath against her neck, “Both of you, out of here. Now.”

“But you need my help-”

“What I need is for both of you to leave,” He says exasperatedly, “You guys are a nuisance.”

“Oh come on,” She wheedles, as Bellamy disentangles himself from her, cheeks flushed, “It was just some healthy competition.”

“More like a distraction,” He says sternly, “Go home, Clarke. Get all that frosting washed off you. I’m not even going to tell you how we did, because this is downright ridiculous.”

She does what he says, because if there’s anyone who can make her feel like a scolded child, it’s Lincoln. But he does tell her the results anyway, and _C.G. Cupcakes_ wins by $30.

Clarke gloated about it all week, even going to the extent of leaving a cupcake with Bellamy’s sweater on the Blake’s porch, a reminder of his failure. Two days later she finds a single strawberry cupcake in her mailbox, lettering neat and precise, strawberries cut in perfect halves.

(He draws a dash through his sevens, his nines ending in a loopy curl. He’s left her his phone number, and for some strange, incomprehensible reason, she smiles about it all day.)

**Author's Note:**

> send me prompts on [ tumblr ](http://okteivia-blakes.tumblr.com) if you're so inclined!


End file.
